


No Way You'll Ring The Alarm

by PoisonHw



Series: once i'm in, i own your heart [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crimes & Criminals, Federal Agents, Flirting, M/M, Making Out, attempted serenading, criminal!Jaskier, fed!Geralt, geralt being unable to say a damn thing, mistakes being made but not regretted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25269418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonHw/pseuds/PoisonHw
Summary: Despite his hard work, Geralt still hasn't caught Jaskier.So Jaskier comes to him, instead.It doesn't exactly go as planned, but neither of them will complain.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: once i'm in, i own your heart [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1830628
Comments: 8
Kudos: 67





	No Way You'll Ring The Alarm

**Author's Note:**

> Look at me, saying "I won't write more of this au" and then coming up with a part 2, like, a week later.  
> I wrote this in a few hours, too. I had the idea already, I started writing and then couldn't stop.  
> This is a series, now, I guess? I'm leaving it open in case I get any more ideas, but this is probably never going to get an ending. At least not a happy one.  
> So yeah.
> 
> This one's not beta-ed, because my friends have lives. If there are any big mistakes, don't hesitate to point them out to me!
> 
> The title of this fic, and of the series, are both from Adam Lambert's For Your Entertainment. Which is funny, because I was listening to Original High during this.

Geralt doesn’t need to step into his apartment to know that something is off.

He’s had a long day, and is ready to sleep for about a hundred years (or at least five hours) to kick the exhaustion away. Lambert is away on vacation for a week; he left the day before, declaring he’d had _enough of your sorry asses. See you whenever, assholes_ , and Geralt is on desk duty, only leaving the Bureau with Vesemir if he’s really needed since his partner isn’t there. He’s never done so much paperwork in his life, and he’s discovering just how exhausting filing paper really is.

But something is wrong.

He’s standing in front of his door, frozen. The corridor is empty, and if he waits even longer, the light will go off and he’ll be in the dark like an idiot.

But he can’t help it. He could swear there was music coming from his home not a minute ago. And he’s not exactly ecstatic about it.

A hand goes to the gun under his jacket, while the other slides the key in. The door is still locked. How did someone get inside?

He turns the key slowly, silently, but the music has already stopped. Whoever is in there, if there is in fact someone, knows he’s back.

The door creaks when he opens it, reducing any chance he had at being sneaky to ashes.

A lamp is on in the living-room, bathing it in a low and warm light. Geralt closes the door, leaving his keys on the kitchen counter, and walks slowly forward. He’s not going to like what he finds in the room. Now that his brain is actually working, he’s pretty sure he knows who is waiting for him inside his own house.

He enters the room, and points his gun at the couch, and the man sat there.

Geralt was waiting for it. He knew who was going to be sitting on his goddamn couch, could already picture the smirk, but still, he spend a few seconds unable to move.

“For a federal agent, you sure seem to have a propensity to freeze in action,” Jaskier says, looking down at the guitar he somehow managed to bring here.

Geralt shouldn’t stare. He should jump on the opportunity to cuff the guy. But he can’t help staring. Jaskier is _gorgeous_. He’s wearing a midnight blue shirt opened all the way to his navel, tucked in tight white jeans and combat boots. His hair is a mess, but his eyes are lined. This combination shouldn’t look so good. It does.

His eyes jump to the gun still pointed at his face, and seeing as Geralt hasn’t uttered a word, he seems to decide he’s got the right to talk again.

“The safety’s on,” Jaskier declares, raising an eyebrow. “Seriously, you’re supposed to be good, Geralt.”

Geralt is a man of few words. He’s known for choosing those carefully, only speaking when he has something of value to say, usually staying silent and observing the rest of the time.

So it’s a surprise when what comes out of his mouth, instead of something useful, is “What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

Jaskier carefully puts his instrument down, propped on the couch, and stands up. He’s all grace and fluidity, like a cat, and the fact that he doesn’t care about the gun pointed at his face is genuinely worrying.

“Why, I wanted to see you, of course,” he says, as if it was obvious, “and I heard that your gorilla of a partner was away. Such an opportunity doesn’t arise every night, you know.”

Geralt barely refrains himself from snorting at hearing Lambert referred to as a gorilla.

Pointing a gun with the safety on (and an empty magazine, anyway) at the Bard’s face will, clearly, only serve to tire his arms. Against his training, and his better judgment, he gives up and puts it back in its holster.

Jaskier’s grin lights up his entire face.

“Now, we’re talking. Good choice, my love,” he drawls.

“Why are you doing this?” Geralt asks. “What even is _this_ , Jaskier?”

Jaskier shudders when he says his name, eyes glinting in the low lighting.

“I don’t know. You fascinate me, Geralt. I’m not easily charmed this much.”

Geralt grits his teeth. “Stop the games.”

The criminal laughs, opening his arms. “There’s no game, sweetheart. I like you. You’re hot, and you’re smart, and there’s something about you that’s mesmerizing in a way,” he says. “I wish I could take you on a date. Alas, this is not a romance novel and our relationship is doomed before it’s even started. You’re a fed and you won’t give it up, I’m a criminal and I won’t give it up. We have nothing else to offer each other. So, I take what I can get.”

Geralt’s eyes are probably hilariously big by now. His brain is desperately trying to make sense of the situation, of the fact that Jaskier is just here because he wants to, despite knowing they can’t ever be anything. He hates that his heart flips at the thought, that he, too, wishes they could try to have more because Jaskier is not the only fascinated one in this duo.

But he can’t say it. He can’t let Jaskier know that the attraction is not one-sided, because that would just put a rod in his plans to someday put him behind bars. He could do it right now. Jaskier doesn’t look like someone who can fight, or at least not someone who can overpower him if he tried to cuff him.

So why isn’t he doing just that?

His inner turmoil must show in his eyes, because Jaskier gives him the tiniest smile he’s seen so far, and takes a new step towards him.

“You know,” he almost whispers, “my associates warned me against coming here. Ultimately, they can’t stop me from doing anything, but they still expressed an extreme displeasure at the idea.”

Geralt should do his job. He should try to get more information out of him, to use this readily available source he suddenly has at his disposal. He should ask _Smart people, your associates. Who are they?_ He wants to. But he knows Jaskier by now, and the only answer he would get would most definitely be something along the lines of _Nice try, Geralt. You won’t get something out of me so easily._

So he doesn’t ask anything. But it’s been proven tonight that he can’t keep himself from saying dumb things, anyway.

“They sound smart. You should listen to them,” he breathes.

Their proximity is killing him slowly but surely. Jaskier takes another step, and they’re so close it’s painful. Geralt can smell his perfume now, lavender and new leather mixed somewhere near his neck.

Their heights barely differ. Jaskier looks him in the eyes, raising a hand to put a finger under Geralt’s chin, and Geralt can feel the puffs of his breath when he speaks.

“I should, shouldn’t I? I tend to make a lot of mistakes when it comes to my personal life. My entourage knows it. But I can’t seem to stop,” Jaskier whispers this time. “Why can’t I stop, Geralt?”

Geralt doesn’t have an answer. It’s possible Jaskier is addicted to danger, to the thrill of almost being caught or putting himself in the worst position ─ like visiting the home of the federal agent who wants nothing more than to catch him.

Except that’s not exactly true, is it? If Geralt really wanted to catch him above all else, he would already have him in cuffs and back at the Bureau. Instead, he’s standing, unable to move, chest heaving yet feeling like he’s unable to breathe.

Jaskier renders him unable to do his job. Just his fucking luck, huh?

Geralt doesn’t do whispering. He speaks in a low voice, instead, marvelling at his own ability to not crack under the pressure.

“It’s not too late to pull back.”

He doesn’t want him to pull back.

The apartment is so silent it’s _deafening_. Geralt can hear his ears ringing, waiting to see what the infamous Bard, standing a hair away from him in his own house, is going to do to him. Two seconds seem to last a few eternities.

And yet, they’re not enough to prepare him.

Jaskier barely wastes time and surges to kiss him. It’s messy at first; the angle isn’t quite right, despite them being both experienced adults, and it starts with a clash of teeth before the angle changes after half a second.

And suddenly, Geralt is making out with his nemesis in the middle of his living-room.

He should put a stop to this. He should take a step back, and do his job, and be reasonable.

But Jaskier bites on his bottom lip, threads a hand through his hair and pulls _just right_ and all rational thought leaves him. All he can do his moan, loud enough that it should make him embarrassed; it doesn’t, because it also makes him open his mouth more and Jaskier takes the opportunity to slide his tongue in, and Geralt loses it. He grips the other man’s hip, hard enough to leave a bruise, keeping him close and not letting go, and another hand climbs up Jaskier’s chest. He revels in the shiver that goes through Jaskier’s body at the touch.

What should have stopped at one kiss takes too long but stops too soon.

Jaskier wrenches away from him, barely putting more distance between them as they catch their breath.

He looks like a mess but he’s beautiful, lips red and swollen and a glint in his eyes, and the only thing Geralt regrets is not taking the opportunity to touch his messy dark hair.

For the first time in his life, he witnesses the Bard himself failing at finding his own words.

Geralt should say that it was a mistake. He’s tired of telling himself to do his job without being able to listen to his own damn reason, and he should at least manage to declare, out loud, that they should not have done this.

But he doesn’t say it. Because he doesn’t regret it. Therein lies the problem. He _wants_ to go on a date with Jaskier, he _wants_ to do this again because it feels _good_. Because the man is cocky and a pain in the ass, but he’s also witty and funny and hot, and Geralt is going to lose it soon.

For fuck’s sake, he wants to date a _criminal_.

Everyone he knows would have a stroke if they knew.

Jaskier seems to recover first. He straightens up, his breath evening, and a smile slowly starts painting his face.

“That was,” he starts, “hum, something. Really something.”

Geralt finally manages to calm down completely, but he’s still silent. By now, Jaskier seems to have accepted that words are not his strong suit, and happily talks for both of them with a seemingly endless supply of things to say.

“I don’t care if you regret it,” he says, “because I definitely don’t.”

Geralt shakes his head, leaving it to him to decide how to interpret it. He either thinks Jaskier is crazy, or he doesn’t regret it. Hell, both.

Jaskier’s gaze tears away from him to fix itself on a point past his shoulder, and his eyes widen.

“Would you look at the time!” he exclaims. “As incredible as this was, I have places to be, my love. I wish I could’ve serenaded you like I originally planned, but all things considered this was way better.”

Geralt watches in a silence he can’t seem to break, as Jaskier slings his guitar over his shoulders and pecks him on the lips before speeding down the hallway and opening the door.

“See you around, Geralt,” he says, and winks before slamming the door shut.

Geralt doesn’t get to answer, to think, to do anything really.

The fact that he’s never going to be able to catch Jaskier slowly sinks in. Clearly, he’s not the man for the job, if his reaction whenever they come in contact is anything to go by.

He just made out with the guy, for god’s sake.

Geralt takes a seat on the couch and rubs a hand across his face, sighing. There’s no way he’s sleeping tonight.


End file.
